


Cry for a Shadow

by collie



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Beatles
Genre: Buffyverse Crossover, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Gen, M/M, RPF, RPF Crossover, RPS - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-03-17
Updated: 2001-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Hamburg, Germany, in 1960, Spike befriends the band that will one day rule the world, but the only member that Spike is interested will end up shattering his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: 8 December, 1980. New York City, New York.

**Author's Note:**

> Before The Beatles made it big, they played in Hamburg, Germany, on and off from 1960 to 1963. I've done lots of research on the early Beatles, so I tried to make this as accurate as possible. I am a self-described Beatlemaniac, so the last thing I want is to sully the memory of John Lennon. Everything in this story is just that -- story. Don't take it as fact, please. (The more I write this, the more it becomes just as much of a John story as a Spike story. I hope you'll all forgive me for that.) 'Cry For a Shadow' is the name of the only known Lennon-Harrison composition ever. It's an instrumental recorded in Hamburg in 1961.

New York's a cold bloody place in the winter, and this year was no exception. I'd been in New York a couple years now, and the winters never got any less cold. I was always thankin' that Slayer that I off'd back in '77 for wearin' such a warm duster. It was keepin'  _me_  warm now. Well, as warm as a vampire with no circulation could be.   
  
Me an' Dru had a small flat in the village. Greenwich. You know the place. We liberated it from two halfwit Bohemians who were too gone out of their own heads to even scream when we tore their throats out. They had a closet full of some nice black clothes, though, so we forgave 'em.   
  
Dru had just had one of her episodes. She'd claimed all her dolls were rebelin' or some such shite, so she decided to take a blow torch to the place. Big bloody mess. She scorched half her room, and the pillows I used to bash out the fire were now layin' in a smoldering heap out in the rubbish bin. I left her screamin' and bawlin' in the corner, sobbin' up a bloody storm.   
  
"They were cross at me, Spike! They were going to leave.. run away. Naughty girls. Bad.. I couldn't allow that! They had to be punished.."   
  
"Bloody hell, Dru! Couldn't you have just taped their damn mouths shut, or tied 'em up with some soddin' barbed wire or something? Why'd you have to fuckin' burn the place down?!"   
  
So she just turned on the old waterworks. Really layin' it on. I was too pissed off to stick around and try to clam her down, so I just took off. Started walkin'. Ended up at this record store. So that's what I'm doin' with my night. Wanderin' around this record store. Great waste of time, if you ask me, but I need to calm down before I go back, or I'm like to rip her damn hair out. Again.   
  
I was pretty much the only patron in the place. The kid workin' the counter looked half asleep. He'd make a fine midnight snack. Plus, I'd get some free music out of the deal. Guess it wasn't all bad. So I picked up some records. One in particular caught my eye. The new Lennon album, 'Double Fantasy'. I chuckled to myself as I picked up the album, turning it around in my hands, glancing at the photo of John and that Yoko bird on the cover.   
  
"Can't believe you made it as big as you did, mate. Then again, you always knew you would.."


	2. September. 1960. Hamburg, Germany.

Dru and I had settled in Germany in the early 50's. We'd been all over Europe durin' World War II, and since most of the damage that had been done had been caused by the Germans, we figured it'd be the most interesting place to settle down in. Get an eyeful of all the postwar carnage and such. It was. Not at all disappointing.   
  
I'd heard tell about this strip of filth and debauchery known as the Grosse Freiheit. Apparently that's where all the fun was, so that's where I wanted to be. I didn't want to take Dru out into somethin' like that, so I told her to stay put and watch the telly. She did so without any opposition, as she was still pretty much completely loony and all. I had no problem controllin' her, but I still made sure to barricade the door from the outside. Couldn't have her wanderin' off and all that.   
  
Came upon a hole-in-the-wall joint called the Indra Club. Looked like a fine place to get some dinner. Scuzzy, dark and smoky, smelled like shite, sweat, sex, and booze. Filled with whores and their unfortunate, drunken targets. I hardly believed  _anyone_  would be missed. But, bein' myself I'm talkin' about here, well.. I had to cause up a bit of a stir. Just my way. Not all about bein' inconspicuous. I needed attention. So when I took a seat at the bar and heard an offensive Northern English accent battering my earlobes, I turned towards the source.   
  
Standin' up on the stage was a ratty-lookin' group of five musicians. They looked pissed and dead-tired, but they were jumpin' about on stage like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. There were three guitarists -- one playin' left-handed with a right-handed guitar. Had the damned thing turned upside down. Looked a right fool if you ask me. One standin' slightly back behind the others, concentrating a little too hard on his playin', lookin' not even old enough to be weaned off his mum's teat. The last one was singin', voice harsh, all but screamin' the lyrics. He had some sort of weird charisma, that one. The drummer looked bored, and his playing was shite. Then there was the bassist, starin' off into the audience behind dark glasses, his fingers always a step or two behind where they should be; sometimes even playin' the completely wrong chord. But nobody noticed. They were all dressed in uniform black jeans, tee-shirts, leather jackets, and boots. The singer had a dark blue button-up shirt thrown on as well, and the bassist was wearin' a black suit coat. They were playin' like crazy, turning out a pretty decent sound for their state, but everyone was too fuckin' pissed to care.   
  
I heard a voice soundin' out in my ear, so I turned to answer. It was the bartender, lookin' slightly put out, asking what I wanted.   
  
"Was kann ich erhalten Ihnen?"   
  
I gestured towards the beer bottles behind the counter. Any old bottle would do.   
  
"Bier. Irgendwie Art."   
  
He nodded and slid it to me as I handed him the money. I took the bottle and moved further down the bar, takin' a seat nearer to the stage. The bloke sittin' there was about to have words with me as I enroached upon his personal space, but I just flashed him a bit of Spike and yellow eyes and he kindly removed himself from my stool.   
  
I watched the band jump around for about another fifteen minutes or so, until they all calmed down and removed their instruments. No one in the audience really even acknowledged their stopping, but one really fucked up bloke near the front started clappin' wildly, hootin' and hollerin' in german. The singer stepped up to the mic with a goofy grin on his face, announcing their break and thankin' the guy, as the rest of the band snickered and made their way over to the bar.   
  
"Thank you, thank you, Herr wanker. We'll be here all week. And next week. And the week after that, and the week after that -- ah, fuck it."   
  
He set down his guitar and joined the rest of the band at the bar, all but the small bassist with the dark glasses. He cut through the crowd and took a seat at a table occupied by a small wisp of a girl with a haunted gaze and close-cropped blonde hair, and a young man with brown hair that was brushed down across his eyes   
  
The obnoxious guitarist slid up right next to me, loudly makin' his presence known, disruptin' people all over.   
  
I liked him immediately.   
  
The bartender slid them all beers, and they slipped into easy conversation around me. The singer didn't join in, instead takin' up his beer and downin' it down in one swallow. I was rather impressed, so I spoke up.   
  
"You all look like shite, mate. Knackered."   
  
He turned to face me, surprise crossing his features. He broke into a grin, settin' his glass down hard on the bartop.   
  
"Ah, nice to hear a familiar voice. You don't sound like the rest of these fuckin' Nazi wankers. You're music to me ears, mate."   
  
I nodded, offerin' up my name.   
  
"Name's Spike."   
  
He nodded. I noticed the tremors runnin' through him, the glassy look to his eyes and the blown pupils. Kid was on somethin', that was for sure.   
  
"Name's Lennon, John Winston Lennon. I was name after Churchill, John Churchill, the wet fish man. My parents were thinkin' of callin' me after my father, but dad's such a stupid fuckin' name, don't ya think?"   
  
Before he could finish, there was a chorus of groans, a few "Shut the fuck up, John"'s, and a "Bollocks!" thrown in the mix from the rest of his bandmates. Then came the rain of crumpled up napkins on his head.   
  
"Oh, sod off, the lot of ya."   
  
He chuckled, settlin' down at the bar, turnin' back towards me, grinnin'.   
  
"Spike, 'eh? Nice name. Birds must be all over you, 'eh mate?"   
  
He grinned lasciviously, winking. I just smirked, nodding a bit.   
  
"When I want them to be."   
  
He nodded knowingly and raised his beer to me. Turning to his pals, he announced the toast.   
  
"To Spike."   
  
They didn't even acknowledge me, just raisin' their glasses automatically, a weak chorus of "To Spike" floatin' back to my ears. He turned back, studying his now empty beer glass.   
  
"So, what's your  _real_  name, then? Not that Spike's not a grand moniker, but if I'm gonna be callin' yer name out across the club, I'd rather not be callin' out something that's gonna make all the queers in the place stand up at attention, if you know what I mean."   
  
I paused. I hadn't told anyone my real name in nearly fifty years.   
  
"Will." So there it was. I don't know what possessed me to tell him. Like I said, weird charisma.   
  
He nodded and held out his hand. I grasped it, givin' it a firm shake. He released my hand, a small shiver runnin' through him.   
  
"Cold hands, mate. Seems you could do with another drink."   
  
So he bought me one.   
  
We sat back against the bar, turnin' to face the crowd. I kept an eye on him, watchin' as he watched the bassist leanin' in close to the blonde bird, a smile on his pale face. John's face, however, turned a slight bit chilly. I took this as an opportunity to cause some trouble.   
  
"Who's that, then?" I said, gesturin' towards the table that housed the trio.   
  
John scoffed, "Oh, him, that's Stu. He's me best mate. Plays bass in the band. Can't strum a chord to save his life, but he looks damn good standin' up there," A smile flashed across his face. I was all too familiar with the meanin' behind that smile, but I kept my mouth shut as he continued, "The bird's Astrid. Stu's obsession, she is. Bloke's Klaus. Them and their mates are all fuckin' Exis; pretentious wankers who think they're better 'n all. Fuck 'em."   
  
"You sound a bit jealous, mate."   
  
He turned a glare on me.   
  
"You can sod off."   
  
I just chuckled.   
  
"No offense, Lennon. I just call 'em like I see 'em."   
  
That earned me a scowl from Mr. John Lennon, but somehow, it was that moment that I knew I'd be seein' a lot more of him in the future.   
  
Suddenly this great hulk of a man lumbered up in front of us, arms crossed, face frowning. John groaned, rolling his eyes back into his head.   
  
"Oh, give us a break, Bruno. We've been playing two hours straight. I'm dead knackered."   
  
From down the bar a bit, agreement raised from the other three.   
  
Bruno's face creased deeper and he pointed to his watch.   
  
"You had break, English. One O'clock. You mach shau now."   
  
John huffed and stood, settin' his mug down on the bar, givin' Bruno an exaggerated salute.   
  
"Aye, aye, captain, oh me captain."   
  
He just stood there at attention until Bruno scowled and walked off. John relaxed and threw me a grin.   
  
"Stick around, 'eh mate? It's gear to have someone to chat with whose not boring as fuck like this lot here," he jerked his chin over his shoulder at the three gripping boys down the bar.   
  
Just then, the left-handed guitarist stuck his head over John's shoulder, smirkin'.   
  
"Get your arse up on stage, Seamen Lennon. We'll try not to be too fuckin' boring. Last thing we'd ever want to do is waste  _your_  time, mate."   
  
He smiled sarcastically, but cordially, clappin' John on the back and makin' his way towards the stage, takin' a moment to shout out to the bassist.   
  
"Come 'ead, Stu. Showtime! Mach shau! All that bollocks."   
  
The Stu looked up in disappointed surprise, then leaned over and planted a small peck on Astrid's cheek and ambled up on stage, takin' his bass from the aggitated-looking guitarist.   
  
John cast me a final nod and left my side, but instead of making his way towards the stage, he stopped off by a tired looking waitress and held out his hand. She pulled out a small vial from her purse, pouring out four tiny blue pills into his hand. He nodded his thanks and took his place on stage. Facin' the band, he plastered an exaggerated grin on his lips, popping one of the pills.   
  
"One for the money,"   
  
Popped a second.   
  
"Two for the show,   
  
Popped a third.   
  
"Three to get ready --"   
  
"Bloody hell, John! Get on with it, already!"   
  
This from the younger guitarist sittin' on his amp, looking ready to keel over. John flipped him off, popping the last pill and pickin' up his guitar.   
  
"Sieg heil, you fuckin' Nazis! Are you ready to rock?!"   
  
No one responded.   
  
John continued.   
  
"Aye, like we fuckin' care."   
  
And the band played on.


	3. October. 1960. Hamburg, Germany.

It was nearin' 3am and the lads had just finished their final set for the night. I'd been comin' in to hear them play for the past month. It was now October and they'd been moved to the Kaiserkeller, because there had been complaints of the Indra bein' too bloody loud, so it had been shut down.   
  
We were all sittin' around a table, sharin' beers, smokes, and laughs. I'd learned the names of the rest of the band members by then; the left-handed one with the bright demeanor was called Paul, the quiet drummer was Pete, and the nipper was George. Stu had dissapeared as well after the set, off with Astrid by his side. He, John, and Paul had had a row about Stu's disinterest in the band and his lack of musical ability, but things had calmed after Stu had left. Apparently it wasn't an uncommon topic of conversation.   
  
I was havin' fun. I was amazed that this group of fuck-up mortals could be so entertaining, but I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such a blast when it didn't include mass carnage and me and Dru rollin' around naked in the blood of our victims. I missed the good old-fashioned boy's night out.   
  
"Oh, Georgie," I drawled, "That bird over there is eyein' ya."   
  
That would always start them in. Poor little George. He was always the butt of jokes, 'cause he was the baby of the group. I didn't feel a snit sorry for him, though. He was lucky. He'd grow up tough, that one.   
  
"Oh lay off, lads. Let me alone."   
  
And he'd blush and stare into his beer, a wry smile on his face.   
  
But this time, I wasn't windin' up. It was true. As the rest of them took the piss out, I leaned in close to him, my voice soft.   
  
"I'm not slaggin' ya, mate. Skirt's right over there."   
  
I jerked my chin over towards his left, where a pretty young brunette sat, flanked by two other birds who were talkin' to one another. The girl was watchin' us, smiling at George, twisting her hair about one finger. George glanced up, his blush deepening. I sat back and grinned.   
  
"Go on over there, then. Look at her; she's a pretty little thing. Don't tell me you don't have the balls to chat her up. Don't let the rest of these bastards discourage you. They're all just bloody jealous."   
  
I ignored the insults hurled my way and just grinned at George. He laughed a bit and nodded. Then he stood, tossing some money on the table and he stepped out.   
  
"Aye then, lads. I'm off. See you lot in the mornin'."   
  
He tossed us a wink and set off towards the bird, who had heard the whole exchange and was giggling with her two friends. As the rest of them hollered and whistled at George's expense, I just smirked, stealin' one of John's smokes and lightin' it up. A chipper voice from across the table called me back.   
  
"Ah, you're a sly one, Will. Poor Georgie's got no idea what he's in for. He's gonna get a mind to go after any bird that looks his way, now, and where will that leave the rest of us?"   
  
I grinned over at Paul's laughin' face.   
  
"Yeah, and it'll be good for him, too. You lot are hard to compete with. Kid needs to learn to stand on his own."   
  
"Bollocks."   
  
This from John, who was already on his sixth beer. We were all pretty pissed, but he was by far the worst.   
  
"George isn't as innocent as he'd like us to think. He's got that pitiful bullshit act workin' too well for him. One glimpse at his cute little face and birds go crazy. He's so young, they think he's an easy target and like to take advantage. Bastard gets more action than I do, so stop your 'Oh, little Georgie needs to learn how to play with the big boys' rubbish 'cause it's shite."   
  
I saw Pete rise out of the corner of my eye, shakin' his head and walkin' away. I took that to mean that this sort of carryin' on was a common occurance.   
  
I was just about to respond to John as Paul beat me to it.   
  
"Oh, quit your whinin', John. You get your oats plenty often. No need pissin' on George's parade just because you're sittin' here with us tonight and not off standin' some bird in the hallway."   
  
He pursed his lips and tapped out the ash of his cigarette into an ashtray. John just smiled coldly, stirrin' a finger around in his beer.   
  
"Oh, now.. don't sound so bitter, Macca. Just 'cause Dot would rather have my hands on her scanties doesn't mean she doesn't still love you."   
  
Oh, now. This sounded as if it were about to get interestin'. I quirked a brow, leanin' a bit forward to catch it all. Didn't want to miss a bit of this row. Paul's eyes flared and he struggled to retain his composure. The chemistry between these two was amazingly similar to that of me and Angelus. John havin' a dig with Paul whenever the opportunity struck, and Paul trying desperately to keep the upper hand by not loosin' it. I had a feelin', however, that this time Paul was going to loose. John was too drunk to watch his tongue, and Paul was just as drunk, so this was bound to come to blows. I couldn't wait.   
  
Paul's eyes flared as he set his jaw, leaning forward into John's still smiling face, his voice full of tightly-controlled anger.   
  
"Sorry? Missed that. Would you mind repeating yourself, you fuckin' piece of shite?"   
  
John stood up, leanin' over the table and gettin' right in Paul's face.   
  
"Not at all,  _mate_. I said, your girlfriend, Dot, shagged me. Then she begged me not to tell her little Paulie because she loved him so much," his voice lilted towards the end, takin' on the high-pitched timbre of a girl, his eyelashes battin' sarcastically.   
  
And with that, Paul stood up, too.   
  
"Aye, that's exactly what I thought you said."   
  
And suddenly, John was sprawled over the table, sliding down to the floor, Paul's fist having made firm contact with his jaw. Paul grimaced, shakin' out his hand, glarin' down at a very dazed John.   
  
" _Because_  you're completely tanked-up, I'm not gonna kick your bloody teeth in, but if you  _ever_  presume to say anything like that to me again, be it in truth or jest, I will not hesitate to cripple you. Now, I'm leaving. I'm goin' out. Go to fuckin' bed and sleep it off. I don't want to hear shite about this tomorrow."   
  
John blinked a few times in response, then promptly passed out. Paul signed then turned to me. I'd watched the entire exchange in quiet contemplation. It was too bloody coincidental. John was too much like me. It was rather unsettling. I snapped out of my thoughts at Paul's voice.   
  
"I'm goin' down the Top Ten on Reperbahn, if he even cares. Do me a favor and get him to bed, Will. I know how he can get when he's this laggered. He'll either try to beat the shite out of you, or start bawlin' on your shoulder like a bitty baby. I'm sure you're not keen on the idea of either one. You know where our room is, right?"   
  
"Yeah. No problem, mate."   
  
He nodded his thanks and quickly departed, running a troubled hand through his hair.   
  
I didn't bother to wake up John. I was too involved in my own thoughts at the moment. I knew what I wanted, and I wanted that sonofabitch lyin' unconscious on the floor of this filthy rat-hole of a club. I wanted the unrelenting bastard who tore into anyone and everything he could, just to make his own pain lessen by causin' the hurt of others. I wanted that sad boy who sang his soul into that microphone five hours a night, eight days a week, for no more than enough money to buy the beer and drugs to make him numb. I had never wanted to make anyone mine more than I wanted John Lennon.   
  
I wanted to taste that rebelious blood on my tongue, feel it slide down my throat and fill my body with it's sweet angst and poetry. But I had to wonder.. would he let me? I could easily take advantage of him in his fucked-up state, and bein' the demon that I was, I probably would. But for some insane reason, unbeknownst to me, I wanted his permission. I didn't want to rape this boy who reminded me so much of myself. I didn't want to frighten him off. I wanted his love; the love that he seemed incappable of giving to anyone, including himself.   
  
I shook my head hard, to clear my muddled thoughts. This would never do.   
  
"Snap out of it, Spike," I chided myself, "Let's get this nipper to bed."   
  
I stood, slightly wobbly from drinkin' too much myself, but still clearer in the head than anyone else in the place. I walked around the table and knelt down, shakin' John slightly to rouse him. He grunted, his face contorting with slight pain.   
  
"Oh, bloody hell.."   
  
He lifted a hand to his head, his eyes squinted tightly shut.   
  
"What the fuck happened?"   
  
I snickered and grabbed him up, throwing one of his arms around my shoulders as I stood, carryin' him up with me.   
  
"You opened your gob and words came out. That shite usually lands you in a bad way, Lennon. If I were you, I'd invest my time in becomin' a mute."   
  
He grumbled somethin' along the lines of an obscenity, and some rubbish about bein' about to walk on his own, but the way he was leanin' against me, I didn't believe that shite for one second. So I held him up and we started off towards the hallway and the one-room storage unit the boys called home.   
  
When we got there, I tossed him on his bed. He let out a loud groan upon impact, rollin' over onto his back, his eyelids flutterin' as he tried to open them.   
  
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, I need to lay off the booze. I'm straight off me face."   
  
I smirked, takin' a seat on the edge of his bed.   
  
"Three sheets to the wind, mate. Feelin' no pain, 'eh?"   
  
He snorted, finally succedding in opening his eyes, his bleary gaze settling on me.   
  
"Bollocks. I don't think I could  _be_  in any more pain."   
  
I laughed, reachin' over to take off the shoe he was wavin' in my face.   
  
"Try fightin' a Slayer, mate.  _Then_  you can bitch about bein' in pain."   
  
I halted, cinching my face up in an "Oh shit!" expression. I can't believe I just fuckin' said that. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he didn't hear me. I concentrated on removing his shoes.   
  
"Slayer? What the fuck's a Slayer?" He muttered, strugglin' to remove the sweater he'd put on over his black tee-shirt.   
  
It was now or never. I could lie, make somethin' up that his drunken mind would easily accept, or I could tell the truth. Which I really wanted to do. I wanted him to know what I was. Acceptin' or not, I needed him to know.   
  
I cleared my throat, tossin' his shoes under the bed, standin' up, shovin' my hands into the pockets of my jeans.   
  
"Slayer.. uh..  _vampire_  Slayer."   
  
I could feel his eyes on me, so I chanced a glance at him. His stunned expression met my passive one, his face slippin' through a myriad of emotions before settlin' on the one his intoxicated brain could handle best: flat out denial. He let out a whoop, slippin' into a flurry of giggles.   
  
"Oh, pull the other one, Will. Vampires? You must be barmy. Fuck, and I thought  _I_  was shedded."   
  
I smiled slightly, shruggin' one shoulder, my voice calm, as I figured it was the only way to get through to him in this state; complete and utter seriousness.   
  
"Straight up, mate. I'm a vampire."   
  
He kept up the laughin'. I didn't blame him. I figured it was gonna take the big guns. I waited for the inevitable question..   
  
"So, if you're a vampire, where're your fangs, 'eh?"   
  
And there it was.   
  
I didn't reply. At least, not vocally. I let the demon slide forth, my face ridging, my fangs elongating.   
  
I'd never seen a man in John's state move as fast as he did, nor sober up that quickly, either.   
  
"Bloody fuckin' hell! What the fuck happened to your face?!"   
  
I crossed my arms, my arrogance startin' to take over.   
  
"You wanted fangs, Lennon. You got fangs."   
  
I smirked, feelin' a bit cocky.   
  
"Wanna touch 'em?"   
  
I never expected he'd say yes. Then again, I should have known. This kid was different. Different from all. He nodded, taking a hesitant step forward, eyein' me suspiciously.   
  
"You're not gonna bite me finger off, are ya, mate?"   
  
I grinned, knowing full well that grinnin' makes me look ten times scarier.   
  
"Nah. Well, not unless you piss me off, but you haven't done that. Yet."   
  
He quirked a smile, as if by reflex alone, and stepped up closer. His boldness only made me love him more. I closed my eyes when I felt the tips of his fingers slide along the ridge of my eyebrow and across my forehead. I had to force myself not to purr. As I'd tell him later on, touchin' the demon's face is a rather erotic experience for the vampire. But I didn't want to scare him off, so I kept myself under control. I felt his fingers travel down my cheeckbone and hesitate just outside of my lips. I bared my fangs in a grin, letting out a deep, soft chuckle as his fingers touched my fangs. He pulled his hand away quickly and I opened my eyes. He was just standin' there, no real fear in his eyes, just a sort of awe. When he saw me lookin' at him, he turned away, wavin' a hand.   
  
"Okay, take it off, mate.. make it.. dissapear, or somethin'. I want you to look like you again."   
  
I lowered my head, pushin' the demon back, although he wanted nothin' more than to dive into John right then and there. It took some fightin', almost a struggle to push him back down. I must have growled slightly, 'cause John pipped up.   
  
"Whoa, Rover.. no need for growlin' at little ole Johnny, here."   
  
I glanced up and found him sittin' on his bed again, trying to fight sucumbin' to the drink once more. This wasn't somethin' you just wanted to pass out through.   
  
"'Eh, sorry 'bout that. He was bein' difficult. Didn't want to go back in. Wanted to stay out and play. He's rather keen on you." I shrugged, as if that explained it all.   
  
John blinked, looking decidedly more confused than he had a few seconds ago, which was soddin' damn confused.   
  
"'He'"?   
  
I nodded. Okay, explaination time, looks like.   
  
"Look, Every human has a soul, and when a vampire is made, a demon takes over that soul. The human dies and the soul leaves the body, replaced by the demon. That's the only way a vampire can survive the way it needs to without bein' torn apart by the guilt of killin'. The demon's keen on you. Hell, I'm keen on you, mate. You've got somethin' about you.. somethin' I wouldn't mind preservin' for all of forever."   
  
I furrowed my brow, studyin' his reactions.   
  
"You remind me of myself, mate. Uncanny-like. What I'm sayin', is.. if you want it, I'm offerin'. Immortality."   
  
He fell silent. Sure, he wasn't sayin' anything previously, but I mean  _really_  silent. Not movin' about or hadly breathin' or anything. It pretty much caused the air in the room to stand still. It was amazing the way this bloke could command attention.   
  
"No. No, not today."   
  
I blinked. That was certianly the last thing I expected to hear. To say I was surprised was an understatement. I suppose that's why I reacted the way I did.   
  
"What?"   
  
The word left my lips in a low growl, my gaze growing dark. I crossed my arms and stepped closer, my body takin' on the predator's stance. Unconsciously, of course. I circled around to the side of his bed, watchin' him as he watched me. His body was quite relaxed, but that was  _only_  because of the alcohol. His face was tense, his eyes wide and clear, keepin' watch on my every move. The chap wasn't thick, I knew that, but I wasn't about to give this up without a fight, be it verbal, physical, or bloody as all get out. I was up for anything, he had me so wired. His voice wasn't scared or shaky, but it wasn't too sure, either.   
  
"I said no, mate. Not today."   
  
I hated the fact, but at that moment, I let the demon take control. Not voluntary-like, but he was so intent on gettin' John, than when he heard those words, that was it.   
  
I grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pullin' him up off the bed. He let out a shout, protestin', but I was too gone in the moment to give a care. I slammed him up against the concrete wall across from the foot of his bed. I had him up at eye-level with me, his toes barely scrapin' the ground. His hands wrapped around my wrists, but strangely enough, it didn't feel like he was tryin' to fight me off, it felt more like he was just tryin' to hold himself up better. No time to think about that. Now's the time to get what we want. The demon surged forth, eager as all get out to sink it's fangs into Lennon, and that's just what it did. I growled and burried my fangs in the juncture where his neck met his shoulder, the demon laughing inside as I felt him wince, knowing from experience that his eyes had clenched shut, his teeth gritting together as he rode the pain.   
  
Just when I was about ready for the big pull, the pleasureable bite that led to the death of one you were going to turn, I heard him whisperin' in my ear.   
  
"No, Will.. I said.. not today. I didn't mean never, just.. not today."   
  
I blinked my eyes as the killing haze cleared upon hearin' those soft words. I slid my fangs from his throat and pulled back, starin' at his pale face, eyelids droopin' from tired, drink, and blood-loss, head lollin' about on his shoulders. My rashness sent a surge of disgust through me, at myself. At my lack of self-control. At my bloody selfishness and lack of patience. About how I had to turn everything personal. I'd probably just lost the first real friend I'd made in almost a hundred years.   
  
I tossed him back on the bed, sittin' on Paul's cot on the other side of the room. The demon chuckled one last time before slippin' away, leavin' my human face, all twisted up in anger and confusion. I watched John roll over on his side, away from me, facin' the wall. I could tell by his body language that it wasn't intentional, not out of hate for me or anything. The kid was just plum knackered; in every sense of the word. He was drained, and I hadn't helped. A few minutes later, I heard soft, steady snoring. It was the steady I was grateful for. I was all too well aware of his lifestyle, and I knew that someone who survived on hardly any sleep, booze, and pills to get him through the days, couldn't survive a huge blood loss. Fortunately, I hadn't taken too much. Sure, he'd be woozy for the next day or too, but no one would notice. Chap was always whacked.   
  
I stood, glancin' out the tiny window, both my body and the faint greyin' of the night tellin' me to haul my arse home and to bed before the sun caught me up and made a nice tall cylindar of ash outta me. So I walked over to John's bed, reaching out to touch his hair slightly, wishin' him well in my thoughts, hopin' he'd have the good sense to wear a high-necked sweater tomorrow, before I set out.   
  
All the way home I kept fightin' this naggin' sensation in my gut. I knew it wasn't guilt. I just wasn't bloody built that way. But then why? Why did I feel .. remorseful?   
  
Bollocks.


	4. Interlude - The Next Night.

I all but had to force myself to show up at the Kaiserkeller the next night. I didn't want to know if he hated me. I didn't want to see it on his face. I didn't want to hear him laugh at me; to take the piss out in that sarky Lennon fashion that was reserved for the aled-up wankers that lacked the sense to steer clear of him when he was in a row. I didn't know if I'd break down in tears, or rip the bastard's head from his shoulders in the middle of the club, if it came down to that. I didn't want it to come down to that. But either way, I had to know.   
  
I walked down the short flight of steps the led inside the club. Smoke, heat, and strains of loud rock 'n roll rose up to greet me. Those three elements had become like a second skin to me, welcomin' me home. I entered the main area and sure enough, the lads were up on stage, runnin' around and actin' right idiots in their attempts to "mach shau" for Bruno. I took a seat at my usual spot at the bar, reachin' into my pocket and pullin' out my watch. Just after midnight. They'd be goin' on break soon.   
  
So I sat back and watched for a bit. Sure enough, John was wearin' a high-necked sweater. It looked a bit out of place in a sweaty hole like the Kaiserkeller, but no one said anything. People'd come to expect stange shite from John over the past weeks. I made sure he caught sight of me, keepin' my gaze steady on him. You can always feel a vampire's gaze from far away, if he wants you to. John met my eyes for a second, long enough for me to know that he'd seen me, then he went back to playin'.   
  
'Bout thirty minutes later, John announced their break.   
  
"Yeah, we're takin' a breather, so you lot can go ahead and go and have a shag or somethin' before we come back on. Fifteen minutes should be good enough for most of you fucks, 'eh?"   
  
He flashed a sarcastic grin to the jeering crowd, then set down his guitar, makin' a straight beeline towards me, ignorin' Paul's voice as he asked John and myself to join them. He came right up, standin' over me as I was sittin'. He didn't say a word, just stared at me, his jaw workin' a piece of gum. I noticed that particular habit a week or so back. He always chewed gum when he was angry or frustrated. I met his gaze straight on, not apologizin' for what I'd done, but not instigatin' anything either.   
  
Let me tell you, I was quite unprepared for the right-hook he delivered, and even more surprised by the strength behind it. It jerked my head to the side and I could taste the dull metallic of my own blood wellin' up against my tongue. My eyes widened as I stuck my index finger in my mouth, pullin' it out all slicked and red. My eyes shot up at him in shock.   
  
He was the first person to do that in as long as I can remember that I hadn't tore limb from limb seconds later. And the funny thing was, I didn't even feel the urge. I felt like I'd gotten just desserts, which I suppose I had.   
  
He just stared down at me, his gaze softening. I glanced down at his right hand, watching him flex and un-flex it, the scent of his blood meetin' my nose for the second time in as many days. He grunted and slid into the empty barstool beside me, starin' off at the crowd. I watched him for a moment, then let out a short laugh, shakin' my head.   
  
"Aye, then. Fancy a drink, mate."   
  
The side of his mouth quirked in a smile as he continued to stare off.   
  
"Ta, mate."   
  
And that was that.


	5. Early June, 1962. Liverpool, England.

Dru and I moved back to London at the end of 1961, after the wall went up in Berlin. Got too political for my tastes. Too much violence that wasn't bein' caused by me and mine. Wasn't my cuppa, so we came back. John rang me up in June, after they got back from their third time around to Hamburg. Said he needed a chat, so I told Dru to mind her dolls as I was goin' out for a stroll. Insinuated that they'd been actin' up and she should sit them all down for a nice talking to. That was that. Knew she wouldn't be causin' too much trouble while I was out. Just hoped I'd have a flat to return to later on.   
  
So drove the bloody three-hundred miles, arrivin' just after midnight. We meet up at his place in Woolton. He was sittin' out front. Looked like he'd been out there for a bit; seemed cold and ill. Sickly-like. I shrugged it off. Seen him look like that plenty of times in Hamburg. Figured it was just aftermath. He was wearin' his glasses. That struck me as odd. He never wore the things. Hated 'em. 'Eh, no need to dwell.   
  
"What's the good word, Lennon?" I asked, offering him a ciggie, lightin' one up meself. He light the cigarette, shakin' his head, lookin' off.   
  
"Not here."   
  
He took off down the block, so I followed. We walked a bit in silence, just smokin'. Not much to look at in Liverpool, unless you're keen on fog and desolation, so I kept my eyes on John. Not blatently, you know.. sideways glances and the like. Figured he'd speak up in his good time. If I'd learned one thing in the past two years, you give John his space. We walked for about thirty minutes until we found ourselves at Sefton park. John stopped, so I leaned up against a tree, puffin' away on another ciggie. Lost count by then. I huffed, gettin' tired of this waitin' about shite, but just when I was about to voice my boredom, he spoke up, sayin' about the last thing I'd ever expect to hear comin' from his lips.   
  
"Stu's dead."   
  
I paused, starin' at him for a moment. Then I smirked, takin' a long drag off my ciggie, exhaling the smoke in a huge cloud. I laughed a bit, figurin' it for a joke. A sick joke, but that's just John.   
  
"Bollocks. Pull the other one."   
  
He didn't smile. His face hardened and he tossed his fag out into the street, watching as the cherry sparked and faded in the damp night air. When he spoke, his voice was tight with barely contained emotion.   
  
"I'm not  _fuckin'_  joking, Will. Do you think I'd fuckin' joke about somethin' like this?"   
  
I frowned, contemplating this news in silence before tossing the butt of my ciggie out to join his. I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my coat and walked slowly around him, circling him as I always do those I'm sizing up. He just stood here, arms crossed at his chest, one leg bet at the knee, jaw workin' furiously at a piece of gum he'd probably been chewin' on for days, eyes starin' hard at absolutely nothin'; typical brassed-off John. I leaned in a bit closer, tilting my head as the light from a streetlamp caught his face just right, and I could make out the very faint ghost of tear tracks down the side of his cheek. He'd been crying. For fuck's sake, John never cried. I pulled back, taking a respectful step back, my voice soft.   
  
"Damn."   
  
He nodded, face never changing.   
  
"Indeed. In-fucking-deed."   
  
I was silent for a moment, trying to think of something proper to say, you know, out of respect and all that. Searchin' for the right words. Unfortunately, I found the wrong ones.   
  
"How did it happen?"   
  
John scoffed.   
  
"They said he died of a fuckin' brain hemmorrage. You know how those come about? A bloody blow to the head. Hard blow. I was there when he got it." John shook his head, sighing, "It was me an' him against the four or five other blokes. They beat the shite out of us. Really tore into us, you know? Knocked Stu's head against a wall and the ground real good a couple times. He blacked out and all, but he flat out refused to go to a doctor. I didn't want to nag on him like his fuckin' mum or something, so I let it drop. He wouldn't even go when his mum found him, sittin' up in his room, bleedin' from the head. She cried and carried on, but he assured her he'd be alright. And he was, until he died."   
  
John reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of smokes, taking one out for himself and offering me one. I nodded my head in thanks, and also in encouragment for him to continue the story. He lit the cigarette and took a drag, and then did just that.   
  
"I didn't really know much of what was goin' on, as I was too busy worryin' about meself, you know? He'd get these headaches every once in awhile, but that's wasn't fuckin' uncommon or anything. We worked eight fuckin' days a week with no food or sleep, all fucked on drugs and drink, every minute of every day.. so I didn't give a shite about his headaches. I had 'em somethin' terrible meself. He kept naggin' and naggin' -- put me in a right chord, I'll tell you that. So I told him to fuck off with his headaches, so he finally shut his gob about it. So, when we left Hamburg again and Stu stayed behind to be with Astrid, somethin' happened. He had this terrible spell and finally went to a doc. Doc told him something was wrong, but it nothing serious and he should just take it easy. Doc gave him some pills and sent him off. Fuckin' quack."   
  
John sneered at the memory, keeping silent for a bit, taking angry drags off of his cigarette.   
  
"He died on April the tenth, the day before we arrived in Hamburg. Astrid met us at the airport with the news."   
  
He looked off, towards the moon.   
  
"I don't think I've ever cried so hard in me whole goddamned life. Not even when Julia was killed. Stu was the closest thing to family I'd ever really had."   
  
I frowned, hopin' he wouldn't start in on the waterworks right here in front of me. Hell, I couldn't even appease Dru when she really got into it. What the hell would I do with John? But, on the contrary.. He threw down his cigarette and spun around, punching the tree I was leaning against. Hard. Hard enogh to break the skin, but no bones. He was angry, but not stupid. A guitarist needs the use of both hands and all. I winced, rememberin' that right hook.   
  
"Bloody stupid fuck! I told him to go see a fuckin' doctor after that fight. I bloody told him! But the bastard wouldn't listen. Wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't listen to his mum. And now he's fuckin' dead."   
  
Then he laughed. It's was desperate soundin'. Sounded like a man hangin' from his last string. But I knew John. He'd bounce back. He always did. Had to. He spoke again, his voice soft.   
  
"It really makes you think about your own fuckin' mortality."   
  
Then he paused, shaking his head, laughing again. Then he touched the blood seeping from the torn skin of his right knuckle, rubbing the fluid between forefinger and thumb. The scent wafted to me in the still night air, and it took me back to that hazy night in Hamburg, but I knew well enough to keep my mouth shut about that.   
  
"But then, I guess you don't have to worry about that, do ya, mate?"   
  
He looked at me then, and I could see the desperation in his eyes, but it was overshadowed by a keen determination. He wouldn't take it if I offered. He didn't before, and he wouldn't now. But it couldn't hurt to try.   
  
"I've offered before, mate. The invitation is still open--"   
  
But he held up his hand to silence me, as I figured he would.   
  
"No. No, not today."   
  
As he said everytime we spoke of it.   
  
"Would you change it if you could, Lennon?"   
  
I knew he'd understand what I meant.   
  
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."   
  
I nodded. Then we simply stood there, listening to the night move on around us.


	6. 1963 - 1980. Anywhere and everywhere.

I didn't see John or any of the lads much those seventeen years. They were busy bein' Beatles. Quite understandable, mind you. It was certianly a full-time gig. In the early 60's, I'd see them often enough, poppin' in on them every once in awhile; showin' up in a hotel room while they were on one tour or another, laughin' it up at the sorry state they were all in, all pissed and high, birds all over the place.   
  
It was Hamburg all over again, only with more money, better booze and drugs, and nice suits.   
  
I'd take any available seat and John would shoo away whatever birds happened to be clutchin' to his limbs at the time. He'd hand me a beer and we'd have a chat, just like we'd seen eachother every day since, when we usually haden't laid eyes on one another in a year or so. The banter was always the same.   
  
"So, how'd you manage past security, mate? They're tighter than George's arse out there."   
  
That would always earn us a plastic cup thrown our way, filled with something alcoholic. Hell, a couple times those plastic cups turned glass and shattered on the wall. But George's shout was always the same.   
  
"Bollocks to you two."   
  
Because he'd never have time for anything more. The bird he was snoggin' never gave him enough time.   
  
John and I'd just have a chuckle, and I'd tell him.   
  
"No tricks, mate. I'm stealthy and sneaky, you know."   
  
That always earned a laugh.   
  
"Aye, you're about as stealthy and sneaky as my infidelity, mate."   
  
And we'd have a roll, I'd get pissed, and it was all fun.   
  
They also didn't seem to mind too terribly much at me neckin' on the girls. Then again, I never even found out if anyone noticed. 'Eh, for the best, I guess.   
  
Later on in years, around 1968, after they'd stopped tourin' and were holed up in the studio in London at all hours, I rarely saw John at all anymore. He'd met this new bird called Yoko Ono, a Japanese girl who fancied herself an artist. I caught one of her shows once, just to see what all the fuss was about. Now, I was never much of an artist myself, but I knew shite when I saw it, and believe me, this was it. I suppose it could be called 'conceptual' or 'before it's time', but I haven't seen anything like it since that wasn't laughed out of the bloody gallery, so I suppose I'm still waitin' for it's time to come, 'eh?   
  
I was fortunate enough to catch John alone at home one evening. He and Cynthia had seperated after she'd caught Yoko and John in their bathrobes one mornin', lookin' all the world like two innocent babes caught red-handed on Christmas mornin' with wrappin' paper strewn all about.   
  
I walked straight in, without knockin', just like always. He was sittin' down in his music room, guitar in hand, a couple of pieces of paper on the table before him, a pencil behind his ear. It was scene I'd seen enough times to know what it meant. He was bullshittin' himself into thinkin' he was writin' a song, and so long as he had those pieces of paper in front of him and the pencil behind his ear, he wouldn't feel like he was completely wastin' time. John didn't write music like that. He was spontaneous, usually doin' his best writin' right there in the studio. I knew he was just bored. So I took it upon myself to entertain him the best way I knew how --   
  
By instigatin' a row.   
  
"So, what's all this peace and love rubbish you and the rest of your crew have been spoutin' on about lately? It's all bollocks, that. It's not you, mate, nor the rest of that lot. What're you all playin' at, son?"   
  
He sighed and looked up at me, peerin' from behind those granny glasses he'd taken to wearin' two years back.   
  
"Oh, sod off. I don't recall invitin' you over."   
  
I smirked and took a seat on the couch across from him, foldin' my arms across my stomach, sprawlin' my legs out, teritorial-like.   
  
"Nah, but you invited me once, and once is all I need, mate." I said cheerfully, knowin' it'd get his wick.   
  
He rolled his eyes, settin' his guitar on the couch beside him, leanin' back in the couch and lookin' at me.   
  
"What do ya want, Will?"   
  
I shrugged, spreadin' my hands, but my voice had a cocky lilt to it. He knew what I was up to, and he wasn't havin' any of it.   
  
"Nothin' in particular, mate. Haven't seen ya in awhile. Just wonderin' what you've been up to. Catchin' up on old times with a friend, you know. Why the hostility, Lennon? It's just me -- your old mate, Will."   
  
He sighed again, shakin' his head.   
  
"Things are tense, mate. In the band. Shite with Cyn and all that. The lads think I'm a bastard for doin' what I'm doin' to her, but they don't seem to understand -- I was never  _in_  love with Cyn. Not really. I was kid, you know? She got pregnant. I  _thought_  I was in love with her because of those elements, but I wasn't. Don't get me wrong -- I did love her; I  _do_ , but I can't keep it up. It's just makin' me too unhappy. When I met Yoko,  _then_  I knew what love was. I needed to be around that. It finally made me whole. Do ya understand me, mate?  _That's_  the reason for all the peace and love 'bollocks'. It's all real for me, now. Like it never was. I always had this hole when I was a lad. You know that. You were there through my worst spot. But Yoko's filled that hole, mate. She's me better half. So, aye, I'm gonna sing about love, because that's what I'm feelin' now."   
  
And with that, he reached up, settling his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, his eyes darin' me to say somethin' to the contrary. But his words didn't anger me. If anything, they stung. We both knew that I'd wanted to be the one to fill that hole for him, but we both knew it would never happen. Now that he had Yoko, I knew it likely never would. So, for me, this was it. My last chance. His last chance. If I walked out that door without him today, I wasn't comin' back. There was no place for me in his life anymore.   
  
I stood up, walking around the table to his side, motioning for him to stand as well. He did, and I walked up close. We were pretty much the same height, so there was never any feeling of dominance one way or another with us, so that had always made things easier. But today, I felt ten times taller, and I knew he knew what was comin', as he wouldn't quite meet my gaze. I decided to just shove on, not beat around the bush.   
  
"If that's the case then, mate.. I'm gonna offer one last time. You can be just like you are right now for the rest of forever; young, talented, sharp, .. beautiful."   
  
I hesitated with that last word. There was an unspoken attraction between us, there always had been. It wasn't an issue anymore. Hadn't been for years. But, it was still hard voicin' it out loud.   
  
"It'll be you and me, mate. No one to fuck things up. No birds around to just drop you like a rag at the end of the day when they're done with you, 'cause that's what's gonna happen, you know. That's what always happens. It's the mortal way, Lennon." I sighed, recallin' certian memories from my past that had aided in my choosin' immortality. Then I continued, "Or, you can live out the rest of your days with that Yoko bird, squabblin' about your petty shite with Paul, George, and Ringo until your ears fuckin' fall off. You can have screamin' babies runnin' around underfoot, smellin' up the place, takin' your time away, stallin' your life until you grow to resent and hate them. It's a lifetime of pain, mate. I can offer you so much more.."   
  
My voice intensified and I leaned in closer.   
  
"I can hand you the world. You know that. It's what you  _always_  wanted. You always used to tell me. You wanted the world. I can give it to you. No one would be able to touch us, mate. No one."   
  
He raised his eyes to mine, and I heard him swallow. For a second, a brief second, I thought I'd had him. I saw that lust for power surge in his eyes. For a moment, I was starin' at the old John. My old mate. My partner in crime. But then, he was gone. He lowered his gaze again, takin' a step back, shakin' his head.   
  
"No. No, not today, mate."   
  
I hated those fuckin' words.   
  
"I've got what I need now. I don't need the world anymore. I realize now, that all I was ever lookin' for was someone to love me the way I needed to be loved."   
  
I opened my mouth to yell at him; to scream to him how much I loved him. But he held up a hand and silenced me.   
  
"I know, Will. You know I love you too, mate. But, it wasn't the kind of love I needed. Your's was a possessive love. You know that. It was the last thing I needed. I found what I needed in Yoko, and I want to spend the rest of my days with her. I know they're numbered, but to me, if I can spend only one lifetime with a love that's as strong as mine and Yoko's, that  _far_  outweighs several lifetimes without it. Please understand that, Will."   
  
I fought with my emotions for a good long time, my gaze steady on his face before I accepted what he said.   
  
I was free to go. He didn't need me anymore.   
  
Abandoned once again.   
  
So I nodded, relaxing my stance. Relenting.   
  
"Aye. I understand, mate. I do."   
  
But then, I was in his arms and he was huggin' me somethin' fierce. I reached around him, huggin' him back, breathin' deep the scene that was so utterly John. Cor, I was goin' to miss him. I felt his breath, warm and thick on my ear.   
  
"Take care, mate. Don't stay away too long."   
  
Then he released me, and we both knew that this was the last time we'd ever see one another.   
  
I nodded, unable to actually speak. I held out my hand and he slid his into mine. I squeezed it briefly and dropped it, then I was out the door and into the night. Back where I belonged.   
  
I saw him every once in awhile after that. Glances here and there. It was nearly impossible not to -- he was a bloody huge celebrity, and all that. Akin to a god to these people. He was right with what he said back in 1966 -- The Beatles certianly  _were_  bigger than Jesus.   
  
Dru and I moved to New York City in the middle of the 70's. In 1977 I killed my second Slayer. I owe her to John. I'd had so much anger built up inside of me, at loosin' him and such, that she was just too easy. I just unleashed it all on her.   
  
I heard, later on, that John and Yoko had also moved to New York City around that time, but I never made a move to contact him. I knew if we were ever to get together for a chat again, it would all happen in it's own good time.   
  
That was just how fate worked.


	7. 8 December, 1980. New York City, New York.

It suddenly dawned on me that I'd been standing there for well over thirty minutes, just starin' at the album cover. Bloke at the counter must think I'm a bloody ponce or something; hot after Lennon. Sod it. So I sauntered up to the counter and tossed the album down, noting the little pisser's smirk as he reached for the album to ring it up. He tapped a few keys on the register and bagged up the album, his whiny voice penetrating the silence.   
  
"You into Lennon? He lives around here, you know. I can tell you where."   
  
His smile turned slightly malicious, and I leaned on the counter, waiting for him to say what I knew was comin'.   
  
"I hear he used to fuck his manager back when he was in The Beatles. He's a fuckin' faggot, you know. They both were. That's why his first wife left him. You seem to dig starin' at him. You got it for the old guy or somethin'?"   
  
Before the last words left his lips, I had him by the shirt collar and dragged him across the counter, taking great delight in the terror that flashed in his eyes. A slow and evil smile slid across my face as I pulled him up close, noses almost touching.   
  
"Maybe I do. But it doesn't matter, 'cause you're not going to live long enough to hear the tale, you little fuck."   
  
I tilted my head, tightening my grip noticeably, letting out a soft chuckle at his garbled shout for help, his weak fingers scrambling to dislodge mine. I ignored it and continued, my tone casual and conversational.   
  
"This is a shite life you're living, ain't it, mate? Let me guess. You dropped out of school to become a musician, but you cocked it up. Can't play a chord. Your bandmates abandoned you faster than you'd drop your trousers to shag anything that threw a shadow. You figured, 'Hey, maybe I'll get myself a job as a record jockey. Maybe bein' around music'll improve me a bit.' But you've been here for years, haven't you? Accomplished anything with your life? Doubtful. You're a waste of fuckin' space. You're a bloody parasite. The world doesn't need rubbish like you litterin' it's surface. So, I'm thinkin' to myself.. maybe I'll help the world out a bit, for once in my life."   
  
His eyes widened, showing white all around. He swallowed visibly, paling as I licked my lips, the demon laughing inside as it slid forth. The kid let out a scream, which only made it better.   
  
"Do I fancy Lennon? Aye. I have for twenty years. If you have something to say about that, you can tell it to God, 'cause he's the next bloke you'll be chattin' up."   
  
And with that, I tore into the little bugger's throat, taking care to make it hurt more than usual. He tasted like shite, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the greater good, and all that bollocks. I drained him dry and tossed him back over the counter, laughing as his limp hand smacked the register and the till sprung open with it's trademark twang. I picked up my bag, wiped a drop or two of blood from it, then reached in the till and grabbed all the cash, stuffin' it in the bag as well. No sense in wastin' good luck. I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth as the demon withdrew back inside. I raised my hand in a salute to the broken boy and turned, walkin' out of the store.   
  
"Pleasure doin' business with you, mate."   
  
I pushed open the door, the ringing bell hung above sounding out. Pausing in the doorway, I reached up and ripped the damn thing off the wall and threw it across the store, watching it bounce off the back wall and land on the boy's corpse, sounding out a last desperate ring before it was silent. Letting out another chuckle, I walked out into the chill winter night.   
  
I wandered around the city for a bit. It wasn't even midnight yet. A bit early for my midnight snack, I suppose, but such things happen, right? Maybe I'll stop by a toy store and pick up another doll for Dru. A nice innocent little rag doll. Something that won't talk back or rebel. Yeah, not bloody likely. They always misbehaved, didn't they? Better start investing in fireproof dolls. Or maybe a tea set. Tea sets didn't burn. Oh, but they shattered somethin' awful when they hit the fireplace. Or the back of your skull. I winced at that memory. I know, a puppy. An annoying little puppy to run around, bite at my ankles, and hump my leg. Dru would love it, and I would rejoice at the animal's impending destruction.   
  
So I set myself in the direction of a pet store. Yeah, it was closed, but when you're a scary vampire like me, you can get away with little things like breaking and entering and theft. Such is unlife, with all of it's perks.   
  
But something distracted me. Someone had their car radio cranked up a bit too loud. A voice floated to my ears, faint, but loud enough that my sensitive hearing could pick it up.   
  
"..shots rang out at the Dakota Building not even an hour ago. Former Beatle, John Lennon, was fatally wounded, struck by four of the five shots fired by an, as of yet, unnamed assailant. Once again, John Lennon, former Beatle, was murdered outside of his home at approximately eleven o'clock this evening."   
  
All thoughts of puppies, dolls, tea sets, and Dru fled my mind as I heard those words. John Lennon is dead. John is dead. It can't be true.   
  
"Bloody hell."   
  
The words were no more than a whisper.   
  
"Bloody fuckin' hell."   
  
It was unbelievable. Completely unbelievable. Sod the fucking dog. I turned on my heel quickly and made my way towards the Dakota which was on the other side of town, just across from Central Park.   
  
I made it in five minutes flat.   
  
I saw the red and blue flashing lights. I heard the commotion, yelling and crying and carrying on. I saw the yellow police tape. It was true. It was bloody true. Gritting my teeth, I turned and walked slowly from the scene. I couldn't undo it, so why watch and wallow? Besides, if I didn't get away from there, I'd soon rip through that mob, teeth gnashin' and eyes flashin'. Hurt, anger, and desperation make people do crazy shit.   
  
So I went home. No reason not to. Dru was asleep. Blessedly asleep. I couldn't deal with her right now. Not now. I'd rip her head off. I went to my room and sat in my shabby green armchair in the dark. I smoked half a pack of cigarettes and just thought.   
  
He was special. Fuckin' special. I should have turned him when I had the fuckin' chance. Just like that bastard, to go and get himself bloody murdered before we ever had the chance to chat again. What a waste of fucking brilliance. I guess he was right -- instant karma's gonna get you. You rid the world of a piece of rubbish like that record store wank, the world kills off someone like John to even the score.   
  
Fuck all.   
  
I reached for the bag I'd tossed carelessly on the bed and pulled out the album. I shook my head in disgust, running my fingers hastily across John's photo-face, my voice a whispered murmur.   
  
"Look what you did, Lennon. Got the world all riled up again. Never were one for bein' discreet, were ya, mate? Always had to leave an impression. Always had to go out with a bang."   
  
I snorted at my pun and pulled the glossy black LP from it's sleeve, slipping it onto the turntable next to the chair. I turned on the machine and lifted the needle, hearing the crackle of the player as it came to life in the oppressive silence of the room. I placed the needle down somewhere in the middle of the record. I didn't care what song it was, I just wanted to hear his voice.   
  
 _Close your eyes_  
 _Have no fear_  
 _The monster's gone_  
 _He's on the run and your daddy's here_  
  
I snarled softly at the player, standing up quickly and unplugging the thing. Fuckin' machine.   
  
"Bollocks to this."   
  
I grabbed my smokes and shot out the door, hearing Dru's soft sleep-filled voice at my back as the door slammed shut.   
  
"Spike.. The candle's burned out.. the light is gone.."   
  
And for one in her unlife, Dru was dead on.


	8. Epilogue: Early January. 1981. New York City, New York.

I waited weeks for the crowds to clear. For all the fans keepin' day and night vigils outside of the Dakota to finally go home. Back to their lives and jobs. To leave John's spirit to rest. I waited until they were all gone to pay my respects.   
  
I waited until I could finally accept the loss on a personal basis. It was hard. Bloody hard.   
  
The sun was just setting as I came up to the building. They'd doubled the security around it because of fanatics who kept tryin' to bust in and steal up to John and Yoko's apartment to try and nick some souvenir or something. Bloody disrespectful, if you ask me. They weren't true fans. I wanted to rip out the intestines of each and every one of those sort.   
  
I'd barely gotten off the pavement across the street when an overweight git of a security guard came down on me.   
  
"And just where do you think you're headed, young man?"   
  
I rolled my eyes, groaning inwardly. The last thing I wanted was to have to kill someone tonight. Not now. But, sometimes it couldn't be avoided, and no one -- especially not this chubby wanker -- was going to stop me from saying good-bye to my mate.   
  
"Just goin' to pay my respects to Lennon and be on my way, mate. Surely you can understand that. Not here to cause any trouble."   
  
He smirked and placed a hand on his nightstick in warning.   
  
"Not here. You can head across the street to Central Park with the rest of the kids if you want, but no one is allowed over here. Direct orders."   
  
I sighed and shook my head. If this is the way it has to be, so be it. I took a step closer, raising my hands in a helpless gesture, speakin' softly into his ear.   
  
"Look, I don't want to have to rip out your soddin' heart and shove it down your fuckin' throat, but I'll do it if you don't get the fuck out of my way, lard-ass."   
  
His eyes widened a little and he frowned, sliding the nightstick out of it's holder, raising it up a bit to strike me.   
  
"Why you little piece of --"   
  
I grabbed his wrist and snapped it, placing my other hand over his mouth to muffle the scream. Then I dropped his wrist and grabbed the back of his neck, the demon surgin' forth as I plunged my fangs into his throat. I drained him dry in record time. I didn't have the patience for this, nor did I want to enjoy it. It wasn't for pleasure. It was an obstacle. After he was dead, I slung his heavy body across my shoulder and tossed it into a nearby rubbish bin, one of those big ones that are kept in alleys.   
  
With that out of the way, I continued on.   
  
Although I didn't know exactly where John had died, I could sense his presence still, and a vampire can always tell where large amounts of blood have been spilled. Even though the stain had been scrubbed at and cleaned away, I could still see the faint traces.   
  
Cor, there'd been so much blood. Too fuckin' much.   
  
I swallowed thickly, a lump in my throat. Even though I'd fantasized about rippin' into John too many times to count, it shouldn't have been this way. The idea of his blood spilling unnecessarily, and with all that hatred and pain.. it made me ill. It should have been me. I should have been the one to kill him. Then I would have had him with me forever. Just like it should have been. I knew the moment I saw him that I wanted him, and now he was gone. Ripped from the world by a madman's bullet.   
  
Fuck all.   
  
"Can't change fate, Will. We've got to accept and move on, because if we don't we go mad."   
  
I repeated those words to myself, remembering the way they sounded coming from his mouth. It seemed now as if he'd signed his own death certificate by uttering them.   
  
I stepped forward, my feet on the edge of the faint trace of blood. The thought of touching it was too overpowering, and I knew if I did I'd start crying, so I didn't. I reached into the inner pocket of my duster, pulling out a single yellow rose. Yellow, for friendship. I stared at it for a long while, silently sending my well-wishes to John, wherever he was now, then I shook the sleeve of my duster up and ran a sharp thumbnail across my wrist, letting the blood pool for a second before turning my wrist and watching it fall in red-black droplets onto the yellow of the rose petals. I allowed it to fall until the wound closed, the rose now a garish sight.   
  
The rose of friendship, tarnished with the evil of the blood that always stood in it's way.   
  
I slowly lowered myself down, placing the rose in the center of the nonexistent trace of blood on the ground, then I stood, taking a cigarette from my pocket and lighting it. I raised the cigarette in salute.   
  
"To John Lennon. Here's to you and your fucking mortality, mate."   
  
Then I turned silently and walked away   
  
I haven't looked back since.


End file.
